


A Dark and Stormy Night

by incogneat_oh



Series: That One Hug Meme [17]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic, Storms, hug meme, it's probably not a metaphor, the ocean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 03:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12673794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Then, he looks up toward Batman, splutters, “Typical that you’d get washed to the higher ground.” And his head lolls back against the rock, for a second, while he gets his breath. Laughing a little.“You injured?”“I’m good,” he calls back, still laughing, still huffing for breath. “You?”For the hug meme, "for warmth". 90% set up, 8% bad jokes, 2% hug. Business as usual.





	A Dark and Stormy Night

—

It’s dark and it’s freezing cold, and the torrential rain is tossing the waves into chaos. 

But everything is muted under the water; except the panic, not knowing which way is up. And it takes a long minute of painful breathlessness– lungs aching, pressure  _building_ – for Batman to kick his way in the right direction, and finally break the surface of the water again.

He sucks in two, three deep breaths, and calls, “ _Red_?”

And– there’s nothing. He can’t see far in the dark, through the rain, and is thinking he’s going to have to take his chances  _under_ the waves again to find him, when he hears coughs from somewhere to his right. “ _B_?”

“I’m here,” he says. “You okay?”

There’s a pause. “The good news,” Red Robin says, breathlessly, “Is that I just swallowed about half the ocean. If you swallow the  _other_ half, we should be good to walk back home.”

“Hnn. We’ll call that Plan B.”

“We’re too far out,” Red Robin says, like Batman hasn’t noticed. “We can’t g-get back in this weather, especially not swimming against the current.” Ahh, the current. The one that dragged them all the way out here from the Gotham harbour.  

“We’ll think of something else.” 

And Red Robin’s closer now, close enough to  _see_  at least, and the kid, ghost-pale and drenched, gives him a winning smile. 

The cowl lenses are waterlogged, so Batman’s squinting uselessly around, unable to make out anything much in the dark and the rain. But they can’t stay here forever, treading water in the cold, in the middle of the goddamn ocean. 

Red Robin speaks, then, but the words are snatched away by the wind. 

“What?”

He paddles a little closer, says, “I  _said_ , does that look like a cliff to you?” and gestures, with a tilt of his head. 

Batman turns and squints. “Better than nothing.”

“There might be shelter there,” says Red, and Batman counters, “Or someplace to get our bearings, at least.” because no one ever accused him of being an optimist. He grunts, “Better we keep moving as long as we can.” Which means,  _don’t stop_.  _However tired you get, push harder._

And he starts to swim toward the dark shape without a word, without waiting for agreement. He knows that Red Robin will follow.

It’s a long, hard swim, lungs burning with cold, muscles contracting painfully from the cold water and exertion. But every time Batman takes a breath, he sees Red Robin keeping pace at his side. He hasn’t stopped, hasn’t faltered.

And when Batman next looks up, at the looming, indeterminate shape ahead of them, it still seems  _so far_. But they persevere. 

They’re almost there, at what looks like a rocky cliff-face, when an enormous wave takes them by surprise, swallowing them back under the dark water, propelling them forward– and Batman’s trying, struggling to get his bearings, fight his way back to the surface, but he can’t quite manage. And the wave doesn’t slow until it breaks, loudly and  _cold,_ straight against the rock. 

By sheer luck, Batman hits it feet-first, and his boots absorb most of the force. 

It gives him enough time to gasp in a quick breath before he gets a decent hold on the rock and can reorient himself. The wave had carried him pretty high above the water, and he can see the surface of the waves a good few feet below. But he can’t see Red Robin.

Until he sees, far below, a small figure in a bright red costume haul itself out of the ocean. Red Robin grips tight to the cliff, dragging himself up until he’s fully out of the water. Then, sagging against the rocks, he coughs and gasps, possibly vomiting, and gives Batman a thumbs-up with one hand. 

Then, he looks up toward Batman, splutters, “Typical that  _you’d_  get washed to the higher ground.” And his head lolls back against the rock, for a second, while he gets his breath. Laughing a little. 

“You injured?”

“I’m good,” he calls back, still laughing, still huffing for breath. “You?”

Batman grunts an affirmative. They’ll both be sore as hell tomorrow, he knows. But there’s nothing either of them can do about that just now.

And another wave crashes against the cliff-face, missing Batman but covering poor Red Robin– and for one horrible moment, Batman thinks the boy’ll get washed back into the sea– but when the spray clears, he’s still clinging to his handholds. And coughing a little more.

“You want to climb a little higher?” Batman says, mostly to be an asshole.

Red Robin just shakes like a puppy after bath time, primly sweeps his soaked cape behind him, and starts to climb. It’s tough work, the salt-licked rocks still wet and gritty, and– lower down– worn almost smooth by the water. There’s also the rain, messing with both visibility  _and_  grip.

Still, in barely minutes, Red’s diagonally climbed his way closer to Batman. The kid, as Dick Grayson would say, has got  _skills_.

Shaking himself into action, Batman sets his shoulders and starts to climb too, mindful not to kick any loose debris onto his middle son. It’s a rough climb, especially in the dark, and so Batman is– not  _startled_ , because Batman is never startled– but  _surprised_ , to see Red Robin has  _overtaken him_ , not too far out of breath, still with a spring in his climb. 

He pauses, looking down at Batman, calls– “That looks a lot like a cave up there!” and points, with the hand not holding his weight. “We are  _definitely_ checking that out. Maybe we can ride out the storm there, get good and warm, and start home–” huff “–tomorrow?” And then, correctly interpreting Batman’s expression, even from afar, he says, “Well, it’s worth a  _shot_ , and we’re not exactly drowning in options.”

_Poor choice of words_ , Batman thinks wryly, but Red Robin’s already off again, even faster now that he’s working his way toward something. 

Batman hauls himself up, inch by aching inch, but refuses to stop. His progress, while slow, is steady, and pain has settled well and truly into his muscles. He can’t imagine Tim’s faring any better; the abrupt shift from icy water to extreme rock-climbing isn’t the best way to spend an evening. And there was the catastrophic patrol in Gotham that got them here.

And by the time Batman thinks about pausing, taking a brief rest, he’s too close to stop. And Red Robin, at the mouth of the cave, calls something down, that Batman doesn’t catch. Then he disappears.

Batman’s so close to the cave now, just another six or seven feet, when he slips. His foot goes out from under him, one hand outstretched, and he jars himself horribly when he catches himself just in time. It’s far better than the alternative, though.

He grunts, and Red Robin’s cowl pokes out above him. 

“You good?”

“Great,” he grits out, hauling himself up further. 

Red Robin sticks out his gauntleted hand, says, “Need a hand, old man?”

Batman glowers, but the kid doesn’t even flinch. Or take his hand away. So Batman grips Red’s wrist, and Red, with difficulty, helps to heave him into the cave mouth.

Inside, and shockingly out of the rain, they collapse on the floor for a minute, side-by-side in the cramped space. Just catching their breath and enjoying the respite. And Red Robin says, conversationally, “You been eating out?”

Batman grunts his irritation, but Red ignores it again, saying, “It’s almost big enough to stand in here. I mean, it’s big enough for  _me_ to stand in, but barely, so it’s not tall enough for you. I think it widens out a bit further in though.” 

He starts to sit up, says, “We’ll check it out first.”

“Two steps ahead of you,” says Red, cracking a glow-stick from his belt. Already on his feet. “If I scream,” he says, from the looming darkness, “It either means there’s something, like, stupid-dangerous tearing off my face, or that I’ve stubbed my toe on a rock.”

“Thanks for the breakdown,” Batman says dryly, getting to his feet himself. He discovers that Red, unsurprisingly, was right. He can walk, but not comfortably; he’s stooped over, aching shoulders slouched, and his cowl-ears keep scratching against the cave ceiling. 

A short way ahead of him, half-stooped over himself, Red says doubtfully, “I could crawl from here, but I think we’re in the clear. It’s empty.” To himself, “Dry, but upsettingly devoid of anything like firewood…” 

And he’s right. Without the physical labour keeping them warm, they’re stuck in a dark, cold cave. And they’re soaking wet.

Red Robin says, “Well, this clearly isn’t helping anything,” and he drags his cowl off, ruffling his soaked hair and becoming just-Tim again. Then he takes off the cape, too, rolling his shoulders and stretching stiffly. 

Batman sighs and follows his lead, taking off his own cowl and cape. 

“So what’s the plan, B?” says Tim, and Bruce just shrugs.

“Not a lot we can do, at the moment.”

“Waiting out the storm!” Tim half-cheers, giving Bruce a sardonic smile. He’s starting to shiver visibly, but his cheer, unlike the rest of him, remains undampened. He stoops over, holding the glow-stick at about knee-height, and examines the ground. He walks up and down for a few minutes, before, apparently satisfied, he stops. And then he lays his cape, quite neatly, over the ground. 

Then he glances at Bruce, who’s watching him openly, one eyebrow raised.

“Well where did  _you_ wanna sleep?” Tim says, and, gesturing to the belt, “Unless you’ve got a camp-bed in there?”

“No camp bed,” Bruce says, feeling his lip quirk. 

“Didn’t think so,” he says, slinging his bandoliers on the ground beside him, taking off his gauntlets and loosening the zip of his costume. He sits on the cape, then, digging through his supplies, and comes up with two cereal bars and a small bar of chocolate. 

Bruce goes over, then, sitting down beside Tim. Dropping his belt and cape beside Tim’s tidy pile of uniform.

Tim wordlessly offers a cereal bar, and Bruce shakes his head. 

“Your face okay?”

“Excuse me?”

Tim smothers a laugh behind his hand, says, “No, it’s just– you’ve got a cut,” and he rubs a finger over his own cheekbone, tracing the shape of Bruce’s wound. “I think– hang on, I’ve got antiseptic here–” and he digs in the pockets of his bandoliers, coming up with a tiny vial. He also produces a handful of unused glow-sticks, and drops them to the cape, alongside the first.

Then Bruce sits very still, holding the glow-stick at Tim’s firm instruction, while the boy leans in, face pinched and concentrated, and sprays antiseptic over the cut. In spite of the sting, Bruce finds his mouth twitching in a smile. It’s been a while since he’s been this close to Tim.

“That th’ only one?” Tim asks him, sitting back on his heels. 

“Should be,” Bruce rumbles. “You?”

Tim waggles his fingers, his bare forearms, and says, “I think I’m good.” But he’s shivering still, goosebumps rising on every inch of bare skin. Bruce can even see them on his cheeks.

“No firewood, huh,” Bruce says then, almost to himself, and Tim ducks his head in a nod. So Bruce sighs, and sheds his gauntlets and boots, while Tim looks at him in open confusion. “I thought we’d use my cape as a blanket,” he explains.

Tim’s face tells him that this has explained nothing.

“It’s not the most spacious cave, Tim, and we’ll be much warmer if we sleep together,” he elaborates, a little further. And then, carefully, because Tim’s expression hasn’t changed, “Is that okay?”

“I– well yeah, I just,” and Tim laughs then, an honest-to-God laugh, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Nothing. It’s fine, B.” 

Then he takes off  _his_ boots too, grimacing at the  _squuueeelllch_ of them. As an afterthought, he unzips the front of his costume, wriggling out of the top half. Underneath he’s dressed in a soaking-wet, ocean-smelling tank top, and–

“Tim– your arm.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little mournfully, already inspecting the damage. Though it’s hard to see, by the light of the glow-stick. “I landed pretty hard when that wave slammed us into the rocks.” His upper arm is swollen, already dark with multicoloured bruising.

“Is it broken?” Bruce says, reaching out automatically to examine it himself. 

“I don’t think so,” the boy says, submitting to his prodding with good grace. “Maybe fractured at worst. Probably just some deep bruising.”

“Hnn.” He checks it out thoroughly, satisfied that it’s probably not a break. Nevertheless, it must’ve made the climb that much more miserable. (And impressive.) “You hiding any more like these?” 

“That’s the worst one,” Tim says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Nothing that can’t wait ’til we get back home.” 

And Bruce, exhausted himself, starts to shift and gather his cape. Feeling inexplicably awkward, Bruce says, “Do you want to… ?” and trails off, half gesturing to the cape beneath them.

And Tim… turns to face him, in the dim, one eyebrow raised. Flatly, he says, “That’s  _it_?”

Bruce, at a loss, can only say, “Uh…”

“Is that how you treat  _all_ your dates?” Tim continues, apparently obliviously. “I mean,” counting on his fingers, “you didn’t treat me to dinner first, you haven’t asked me  _any_ questions about myself, and you didn’t  _once_ comment on how blue my eyes are. I’m just saying.”

And Bruce, to cover his snort, tosses his balled up cape at the kid, half-knocking him over. 

Tim’s still laughing a little while he covers them with their makeshift blanket, and the silence is comfortable while they arrange themselves. 

Tim feels absurdly small in Bruce’s grasp, his head pillowed on Bruce’s arm. The kid starts shuffling around and wriggling closer until they’re fit snugly against one another. 

With Bruce still in his armour, and Tim in most of his, it isn’t exactly comfortable. They’re still wet, after all, and they  _are_ sleeping on a cave floor. But Tim smells like clean sweat and salt water, and Bruce can feel the boy’s warm breath painting the bare skin on his throat.

“Do you think Alfred will make pancakes when we get home,” Tim not-asks, without moving. He’s still shivering, but it’s already less noticeable. And he seems happy enough.

“I just want something with bacon,” Bruce admits, and feels Tim’s snort through his chest plate. 

They lie in a companionable silence for a little, before Bruce says, “I suppose, Tim, that this is where your legendary talent for falling asleep in any situation comes in handy.”

There’s– silence, stillness, for a moment before it’s disturbed by Tim inhaling loudly, shifting his head from where it’s tucked under Bruce’s chin. Drowsily, half-sitting up, he slurs, “D’you say somethin’?”

And Bruce can’t help the bubble of laughter that builds in his chest, then, the smile twitching at his lips, and he guides Tim back down, carefully tucking the cape back around him. “It was nothing.” And, “Goodnight, Tim.”

“Mhm,” Tim mumbles, almost asleep again already. “G’night, B.”

And Bruce keeps smiling, right up until he falls asleep himself.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> I hate posting the hug memes here because none of them have titles. Why do I do this to myself. 
> 
> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/80977620997/can-i-get-some-bruce-tim-7)


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